


Lethe

by Zenmi



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Memory Loss, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 07:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19372126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenmi/pseuds/Zenmi
Summary: In Greek mythology, Lethe was one of the five rivers of the underworld. Also known as the river of unmindfulness, the Lethe flowed around the cave of Hypnos, where all those who drank from it experienced complete forgetfulness. Lethe was also the name of the Greek spirit of forgetfulness and oblivion, with whom the river was often identified.But it's also the name of MI6's favourite new drug.





	Lethe

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I posted the beginning of this fic last year and then I completely forgot about its existence — sue me. But recently I rediscovered it and decided to heavily edit it, grammatically as well as plot-wise (I still can't believe I wrote something so trashy omfg), so if you read this before I'd suggest rereading it, otherwise there'll be nothing but confusion :)
> 
> 2) English is not my first language, so there may still be some mistakes I missed

He’s a mess. That much he knows.

But other than that he is absolutely clueless. About what, you ask? About _everything_. 

When he first woke up, the only sensation he was able to distinctly feel was the hammering pain inside his head. Nothing else. Only a sensation of fire burning away his brain cells, completely drowning out any coherent thought he otherwise could have formed. 

It made him want to feel nothing at all. Eternal numbness was his greatest wish after regrettably waking up. A few minutes later he fell unconscious again. If he had been able to think straight at that moment, he would have thanked the gods for their graciousness. Otherwise, contemplation of suicide wouldn’t have been that far off. 

The second time he slightly opened his eyes, he saw a faint light at the edge of his vision. Slowly it grew more and more bright, blinding him. He closed his eyes again.

What made him regain consciousness the next time, was the excruciating pain in his body — a deep ache which became worse with every breath he took, with every minimal movement of his eyes, every beat of his heart. It was like venom in his blood, pumping through his body and making him want to scream. 

But no sound came out of his throat as he was completely unable to do anything but lie in the dark and wish for the end. He was paralysed, the screaming contained in his head and feeling the overwhelming urge to claw off his own skin, if only that would make him feel better.

...

Now that the pain has thankfully subsided a bit, he is finally able to properly take in his surroundings. Everything is still out of focus, but any information he can get about his whereabouts were better than being completely in the dark about his situation.

He is staring directly at a plain white ceiling with a slowly turning fan, watches a fly lazily buzz round the room and detects a few defect lamps — pretty boring, and nothing useful. Moreover, he is sure that he is lying on some kind of mattress and at least not on the hard ground. 

By carefully lifting his arms and patting himself down he notices he still wears the same clothes as before when he… when he… _he can’t remember the before_. But judging by the school uniform he wears, he must have had a quite normal day before he somehow ended up here. 

And there’s a second thing he learns by lifting his arms: his hands are cuffed together. And they’re coloured red with blood. ' _What the hell could have happened to him? And why did he instinctively know that it’s blood that's on his hands?_ ' Slowly it occurs to him that his memory loss is not to be taken lightly at all and the panic sets in.

‘Has he been kidnapped? Where does the blood come from? And is it his own? Or did he hurt someone else?’, the more he panics, the harder it gets to breath. He has to calm down and think rationally. Spiralling will not help at all.

Alarmingly he doesn’t even know his own name. This is getting _really_ scary, _really_ fast, he thinks to himself.

What to do now? His hands are useless, and one of his ankles is cuffed to the bed by a strong iron chain, which he had of course tested by yanking at it and almost dislocating his ankle by doing so — and making a loud clanking sound in the process, which attracted quiet steps that are getting louder by the second, and now stop in front of the door to his little prison.

The door is noisily opened with a key and light streams inside the room, momentarily blinding him. When he looks up again, all he sees is a tall silhouette turning off the fan and stopping in front of the bed he’s sitting on, staring down at him with a strange expression on the man's face. 

For a few seconds — which feel like hours — absolutely nothing happens, and they simply stare at each other. Then the man pushes one of the chairs from the corner of the room next to the bed and casually takes a seat, as if it was a completely normal situation. As if he does this every day and feels as relaxed as ever. _Well, maybe he does_.

…

‘Just what is going on inside that head today?’, Yassen thinks to himself, amused. The boy always gets into trouble, it’s like he just can’t stay away — a characteristic that runs in the family. Just like the attractive looks the boy inherited from his parents. 

But today something seems different. It’s not like this is the first time he had to save the boy from danger, much less the first time the teenager is in cuffs or was injured while on a mission.

There is such innocence in his big eyes — he could have easily mistaken the boy for a little child that has never seen the evil of the world before (which sadly couldn't be farther from the truth when compared to the boy's life).

‘Mmh.’ Yassen hates being confused; in his career path it’s crucial to know about even the smallest details, to plan for every possibility.

Since the boy doesn’t look like he plans on speaking up, he sits down on one of the chairs and starts the conversation himself.

...

“I guess you have questions,” his kidnapper broke the tense silence. ‘What a nice voice he has’, is inappropriately his first thought after hearing the stranger talk. Now that he can take a closer look, he also notices short blond hair, a slim but muscled body and an unreadable look on his face.

He stays silent. Not out of fear, well maybe a bit, but because he’s sure that answers only ever come for a price. And that price is usually higher than you’d like it to be.

“Oh come on, the last times we spoke you wouldn’t stop bombarding me with questions and now you’ve become mute? That’s quite a big change in attitude, Sasha.”

‘... Is this man _teasing_ me??’ As if he isn’t confused enough as it is, regarding his situation. And the additional information in these two sentences aren’t helping. 

Is Sasha my name? It seems as unfamiliar to me as any other name… But _why_ does my kidnapper act like he knows me so well? Somehow I can’t image us being friends, or even associates. And it’s very concerning that this scenario doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary for him — that I seem to play a permanent part in it. 

“Why am I here?”, he slowly asks, determined not to let any of his fear show, “And why did you stare at me like that when you came in? That’s kinda creepy, not gonna lie. You’re not some child predator, are you?”

‘Yes, that’s right! Be sassy and don’t let your voice waver!’ He is even a bit proud of himself for a second, but then he realizes that being cheeky could lead to the man deciding he doesn’t want him to talk any more. And he _does_ want to keep his tongue. ‘Oh God, _don’t panic_. I just really hope that guy isn’t a child molester. He doesn’t look like it, but who does? I mean, how would you describe the typical paedophile? Oh no, don’t get off track, _concentrate_!

The other man raises one of his eyebrows (‘Is that surprise he detects in his expression? Damn that man has a great poker-face. But at least he doesn’t seem offended.’). “Something about you seems strange today… I’m not certain what exactly has changed but surely you can let me in on it.” The blond says conversationally, in perfect accentless English, but somehow makes it sound like an order.

“Oh? And how do I differ from my usual behaviour?”, he boldly inquires. ‘Urgh, don’t be sassy and don’t provoke him, you don’t know what that man is capable of! Hell, why is there no filter in my brain?? I do _not_ want to end up six feet under yet.’

“Well, for one there’s something in your eyes that I haven’t seen there for a long time.” The blond slightly tilts his head and shows a deadly smile. “And second, you didn’t try to kill me as soon as I stepped through the door, so I guess we’re making progress.”

…

Well, Sasha seems to be smart-mouthed as always, no doubt about that, but somehow he appears a lot more cautious, and was that genuine fear he spotted in the boys eyes when he came near him?

What a strange development… Sasha hasn’t shown any _real_ panic in his presence for many years now. More like the opposite. He is a clever boy, so he never forgot what Yassen is capable of and still has a healthy respect for his deadly abilities, but he hasn’t shown such terror upon seeing him since — ‘Yes, since when?’ 

And that’s when he realizes that something must be really wrong, because even at their first meeting, when Yassen almost shot the former 14-year-old, there was more determinedness and stubbornness, than the terror he now displays, in his gaze.

...

‘ _Kill him? Me?_ What the hell is this man going on about? This is all so confusing…’

His bewilderment must show on his face because his kidnapper looks at him strangely again, and says, “Why do you look so doubtful? It's not like you've never killed someone before… What's going on inside your mind?”

He has _killed_? This man is talking nonsense; nothing is making sense any more. And the worst is that the blond is so calm — curious, but calm. And all the while his life and perception of himself are getting smashed to pieces. His life was completely in order before being kidnapped and now he is sitting here being accused of murder. ‘This is so surreal. Maybe this is just a dream....’

But wait, was it an ordinary life? ‘Oh no, how would I even know?! It's so frustrating not to be able to recall any memories at all!’

…

Okay, something is seriously wrong with the boy. His behaviour is far out of the ordinary, something must have had great impact on him. But what could that have been? Sasha has been through so much, what would it even take to break him? Oh. 

Could it be that he has finally been taken to his limit and doesn’t know how to cope? 

But even if that should be the case… the boy knows him. Trusts him, even if everything inside his intelligent brain screams at him how foolish that is. So _why_ , does he try to edge away whenever Yassen makes the smallest movement into his direction?

Somehow he doesn’t think someone had sat Sasha down, and given him a talk about the dangers of associating with internationally wanted assassins — these talks had already taken place years ago and never showed any effect in the boys actions.

Slowly he really began to worry. Since he entered the room, the boy has barely spoken and looks more and more agitated by the second. ‘At least he hasn’t lost all of his spirit,’ he thinks gratefully. ‘Sasha really is the only person who has the guts to call him a child molester.’ He would almost laugh if the situation wasn’t so serious and Yassen not so determined to get to the bottom of the matter. 

…

While he was freaking out again, he didn't notice that the man asked another question and looks at him expectantly now.

“ _Sasha_!”, the man scolds him ( _exasperatedly?_ ). 

“I —,“ 

‘I need to pull myself together, dammit.’ 

“Who are you?”, he asks when he finally gathered enough courage to do so without stuttering. “I don't understand this situation, why am I here? What are you going to do with me? And where exactly am I? I am so confused, please, just let me go.”

The man looks at him surprised, “Who I am? You know that, you know me. Why would you ask that?”

He doesn't react and just adds, “And why do you keep calling me Sasha? Is that my name?”

Oh no, he shouldn't have asked that last question. It definitely isn't a good strategy to tell your kidnapper and possible enemy that you have no idea about _anything_. 

“Ooh,” the man lets out, looking surprised but entirely too interested in this turn of events (‘though is that a hint of worry in his look? What the hell??’). “Well, first of all, I call you Sasha because that's your name. And you're here because I saved you from quite the tricky situation. Regrettably I had to cuff you because I know your temper and tendency to act without thinking first,” the man says almost fondly.

…

_Oh. Amnesia._

So that’s what’s changed. Well, it certainly explains a lot.


End file.
